


The World of Harry Potter is Very Sexless

by glittergluetears



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Dirty Jokes, Gen, My First Work in This Fandom, Please Don't Hate Me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-13
Packaged: 2021-03-08 05:00:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27000082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glittergluetears/pseuds/glittergluetears
Summary: A collection of one-shots. Bits and oodles filling in the gaps of the frighteningly sexless world of Harry Potter. Inspired by a conversation I had with a friend, where we ended up discussing the 'other' use Dobby has for his sock.
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Hogwarts Complaint Form**

Name: Henry Hollicker  
Date Issued: October 31, 1994  
Verified by: Augusta Thyme

Complaint Details:

Henry Hollicker, a 4th year Hufflepuff student, was reportedly in a state of shock after seeing "horrifying acts of indecency" committed by a group of drunken house-elves in the Hogwarts kitchens. The incident supposedly occurred around 2:32 AM.

According to Henry, he was sneaking out to get a midnight snack from the kitchens when he caught the house-elves completely undressed and in the throes of passion. Some were, quote, dancing and gyrating, while one of them spun his filthy pillowcase in the air.

When questioned for further details, Henry instead insisted on being obliviated to "remove the images that were burned into the forefront of his mind".

A legilimens was appointed to verify the legitimacy of Henry's claims and, much to his horror, none of them have indeed been fabricated.

Resolution:

1\. The headmaster has issued a temporary ban on butterbeer for house-elves.

2\. Henry Hollicker's pleads to be obliviated cannot be answered for, as none of the Hogwarts staff and faculty are authorized to perform memory charms on students.

3\. Henry Hollicker will receive detention for wandering castle grounds past curfew hours.


	2. Fiery Frenzied Foresty Fun

"So, let me get this straight," said Ron, desperately trying his best not to burst into fits of laughter. "Draco _fucking_ Malfoy got caught shagging Pansy Parkinson in the forbidden forest?"

Harry nearly spat out his pumpkin juice, and Fred and George exchanged looks of uncontained glee.

"That's disgusting, Ron," Hermione groaned. "I'm _trying_ to eat!"

"Quite a lovely image, isn't it Harry?" said Fred. "A rat getting it on with a she-beaver. Now that's something you don't see everyday."

"That's not all," George added. "Apparently it was Snape, of all people, who caught them mid-shag." The twins snickered.

"A poorly executed concealment charm," Fred droned in his best impersonation of Snape.

"Bet he saw a disembodied ass, or something. Genitals flapping about in the wind," George said. Ron nearly choked on his fried chicken.

"Ugh," Hermione rolled her eyes. "And why exactly should we care about that?"

"I mean, it's certainly good news for us, isn't it?" Harry said. "Must've been at least a hundred points taken from Slytherin."

"Right on the money, Harry," Fred croaked.

"You oughta put that invisibility cloak to good use, Harry," Ron giggled. "Passed down from generation to generation... The ultimate shag machine..."

Hermione, now a deep shade of red, gave Ron a very Mrs. Weasley-like glare.

"Attention! Attention, please," Dumbledore announced.

The entire Slytherin table, which was in all sorts of disarray, grew silent. Whispers and supressed laughter broke out in the other house tables. Malfoy looked even paler, positively ill, and Pansy Parkinson was sobbing on a Slytherin girl's robes.

It was indeed a wonderful day for Harry, his friends, and anyone who wasn't a Slytherin.


	3. Poenis Goenis

It was a fine day in central London indeed. Jon Filbury, a rather grumpy-looking wizard with a receding hairline, was going along his merry way. He was wearing the best muggle clothes he could get for a few knuts and sickles, purchased in Knockturn alley from a rather shady-looking witch with bloodshot eyes and bat wings badly stuck together for robes. ("I can't believe I've gotten this desperate," Jon thought to himself.)

The 'muggle clothes' were in fact a painfully bright yellow garb that had a rather strange cut, paired with an ugly white tie with red spots. The worst part was that it had a large greenish stain on the chest area, which he thought was part of muggle fashion. He could feel the judgemental and questioning stares from muggles burning into his being, and he began sweating profusely as a result. It didn't help that he was heavily ailed by an unbearable, throbbing, seemingly incurable itch.

He hobbled angrily along the stone path, muttering, "Curses... Curses! Why, that Mathilda... Of all the hexes... Fuck!"

After several minutes of avoiding muggle eye contact and complaining about the lack of portkeys, he finally arrived at the abandoned department store. Its windows were broken and all boarded up and the yellowing tiles were almost entirely covered by layers of broken glass and a mess of long-lost, mushed up baseballs. Beyond the tattered door (or rather, what was left of the door) were a few mannequins.

He came up to the one in the middle and said, "I would like to get to St. Mungo's, p-please. It's urgent, you see, I- I have a rash of sorts—"

There were a few seconds of nothing. Nothing but aching, uncontrollable itch. And then Jon found himself in the reception area of the hospital. Much to his dismay, it was a rather busy day even by St. Mungo's standards. The din was punctuated by all sorts of chatter, unworldly noises, uncontrollable hiccups, and the like.

Healers in lime-green robes darted frantically through the hallways, clutching all manners of apothecaries and clipboards. A team of assistant healers had their wands up, trying to move a wizard who was inflated like a giant bubble.

Rows upon rows of wizards and witches (and perhaps squibs) sat waiting on quaint wooden chairs. A middle-aged witch with an unflattering muggle haircut had her wand out while yelling at one of the receptionists. She was demanding special treatment because she claims to be a "distant relative of the Blacks".

He sighed, summoned a numbered card from the lot, and sat on a vacant wooden chair to wait for his turn. "Great, just great. Un-fucking-believable," he groaned.

He now appeared to have restless leg syndrome on both legs, because that was the only thing he could do to control the itch. The witch next to him gave him a raised eyebrow and an inquiring stare, before burying herself once more in a copy of the Witch Weekly.

He winced at the reminder of his wife, Mathilda, who read that particular magazine voraciously. "Is that where she learned all about that bloody hex?"

Several minutes have passed and Jon was now screaming internally in several different dimensions. His face had gone from tomato red to a sickening faint purple, like an angry eggplant.The itch had only gotten worse, now that he's confined to temporary immobility in a wooden chair. His fists were aching from being clenched, and his genitals, more so.

An hour and a half later, he was about to burst into tears of frustration when one of the receptionists finally called his number.

"Argh!" he yelped uncontrollably.

The receptionist looked at him wearily. "...Your name, sir?"

"Um, yes. Yes. No! Fuck. I mean, yes. Jon Filbury."

"Please describe your ailment," she said in a forcefully polite voice.

"W-well you see, my wife hexed me and— Oh Merlin, Oh Merlin's beard it just won't stop the itch! And I've tried everything. Ever-y-thing! Every spell in the book. I even tried muggle creams, for crying out loud!"

"Please head to the fourth floor. A healer has been sent to examine you immediately."

* * *

Jon dropped his shocking yellow pants on the floor, brandishing his flaccid penis and saggy ballsack to the healer (who even looked too young to be a full-fledged healer— must've been an intern). Poor chap.

"Now... Now, as you can see," he said as he pointed at his genitals, "I am in really deep shit."

"Um... Mr. Filbury, is it? I don't exactly see the problem," the healer said. With a strained, nervous laugh he asked, "Are you quite alright?"

"The itch, my boy! The itch! My wife hexed me—"

"In that case, may I ask what exactly was the hex she casted?"

"I'm terribly sorry," Jon said between stifled whimpers, "But I didn't quite catch it. Something like, er, _poenis goenis_?"

"Alright, sir. Let me see what I can do."

The healer, now visibly uncomfortable, prodded at Jons' penis with a magical scepter.

Jon went white in horror. Seconds after the scepter touched his penis, the entire thing went stiff and then... Fell off, tumbled and rolled to the ground like a fleshy bowling pin.

* * *

(pg. 9, cont.) ...and it was revealed that a certain staff member of the Ministry of Magic was, in fact, having an affair! His wife, in the midst of immense heartbreak and distress, allegedly cast a botched hex that caused his genitals to fall off. (Yikes.) Luckily for Mr. Shaftless, treatment for regrowing limbs and extremities are easily available. But the pain one must go through to complete the procedures? Can't say. Perhaps let this be a cautionary tale for all you monogamous wizards and witches out there.


End file.
